Pattern of agony
by Inkfire
Summary: Because she lived for the pain - because the pain killed her soul.


**This is rated M for a reason. Namely torture and cutting. Precisely explained cutting, even. Don't like, don't read. **

It hurts, of course. The Dark Lord's punishments are something terrifying, overwhelming, consuming. It leaves you panting on the ground, defeated and broken, a shaking mess of limbs. Yet for her, it is hardly enough.

She is more punished than the others. Since the very beginning, this has been clear. He is intense about her, demanding: she is his only protégée – she has no right to fail. She used to think of it as a distinction. She fought twice as hard as the others, and she was punished for every little fault, because he was ambitious for her. He wanted her to be perfect. And he didn't fear to congratulate her openly, when she did manage to be fully up to his expectations. She was special. She was _his_. And she cherished the pain, writhed in awed ecstasy while feeling her master's magic coursing through her body in the merciless and relentless cherished those terrifying moments, when her mind was set loose in her body's agony and she seemed to dive in her Lord's bloody gaze.

But time has passed, and her mind is weakened, she has lost the best of herself in the shadows of Azkaban. Her punishments no longer happen for the smallest of faults; she fails time and time again, no matter how hard she tries, and it drives her insane.

She remembers the past, those gleeful times when she was her Lord's protégée, talented and nearly alwasy successful. She was left on the ground shivering in awe, and people thought that she was masochistic, that she loved the pain. How stupid they were! She didn't love pain, yet it fascinated her, awed her, taunted her, broke her, revived her. It made her feel alive. Pain was complex; pain was power and it was a part of her, given to her by the greatest wizard alive, maybe the greatest ever. She opened her eyes, pupils dilated and wide with agony, and stared straight at him; and he stared back at her with something in his eyes that she couldn't quite place. She left on shaky legs, white as a sheet, the taste of blood on her tongue; and as she was alone, she yearned for more.

She had always been fascinated by blades, smooth, cool, sharp blades that reflected her eyes as she gazed at them, seemingly mirroring her very soul. They were so thin, so gracious, so elegant. They grazed her pale skin softly, and with the slightest turn, they bit.

Her blood. She had learned to worship it at a very young age – so pure, so noble – and she loved to watch it, to taste it. The blade cut her skin smoothly; at the beginning there was just this pale, straight line when she withdrew it, and then the blood started to seep away, small drops of shiny red, running on her milky skin. She cut again, a little deeper this time, breathing deeply while watching her pattern of her handiwork; again, and again, and again. Sometimes she bent her head and licked the wounds softly, enjoying the salty taste of her skin, the pleasantly aching tingle. And then she switched arms; she didn't want to damage the one bearing the Mark too much, didn't want to risk her Lord finding out either. Maybe he wouldn't have understood, he would have seen this as a weakness. Anyway, being ambidextrous made it pretty easier for her.

Sometimes she cut other limbs, too. It was mostly her arms. She liked to stretch them out in front of her, and watch the display of her self-inflicted violence. It was a weird sort of high, and it made her feel powerful. She had no clue why.

This was the time when she knew how it felt to be powerful, successful, to feel proud and valuable. Times has changed.

When she writhes on the ground now, her soul is torn as well as her body; when it ceases, she feels cold and helpless, and she doesn't look up anymore, for she knows that there is only anger, disappointment and contempt for her in his gaze. She hears his footsteps as he walks away from her, and the distant leers of the successful ones. Sometimes she wishes he would do to her what she has done to the Longbottoms. Since she lost her gifts, her sanity, her beauty and his interest, what more is there? She wants to let go of the last shreds of her mind, they are too painful. She wants to forget the voices screaming inside her head, the endless nightmares, she wants to forget that she has become cold, lonely, unworthy and insecure. Sometimes she wishes he would kill her.

There is no more high, no more pure exaltation; every surge of energy, of hope burns deep into her and leaves her more hollow inside. There is rage, hatred, and the certainty of being worthless. The cuts are not long and straight anymore; she lashes out blindly at her arms, her limbs, any part that can still bleed and hurt and her tears melt with her blood.

And there it goes again, the same fucked up pattern. Locked in her tortured mind, she wastes away in screaming and blood.


End file.
